


Constellations On Their Skin

by noctiluca



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black-Red Vacillation, Blood and Gore, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Drabble Collection, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 7,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctiluca/pseuds/noctiluca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fics and drabbles I've been writing over the past year. Heavy warnings apply but each work will be headed with its own individual warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. GamRezi: Grip

**Author's Note:**

> I feel I should mention that I also write under breakshackle on ff.net and gallowscapricious on tumblr so I don't get a message about someone stealing my fics.
> 
> Rough sex and blood warnings. Gamzee/Terezi, black.

Her hands are small, would be delicate if not for the strength of her grip. She tugs him by the arm, pulls him away into her room, presses him up against the door and hushes him with her lips. He knows this is wrong, knows what Karkat will think of this, but she is so warm on his skin and he hates her so much. For what she did to Karkat, for her obsession with law and order and all the fucking things he has resisted all his life, for her unseeing red eyes and her ever perceptive mind. She defies what she is, what she believes in; she is chaos yet she closes herself off, puts herself into boxes. He hates her, oh yes, and the press of her teeth to his lip makes him think she hates him too.

He wraps his hands around her arms, long and spindly fingers forming a circle around her lithe frame with ease, and spins her - presses her up against the wall and lifts her with one thigh between her legs, so that her feet dangle. He has control, he wants control - needs her to know that he is the one in charge here, that his blood and his power give him the edge. The smile she gives him is unexpected but not unwelcome, the glint of her teeth lending his fury fire. She grinds down onto his thigh, shuddering, but he keeps his distance from her and he does not kiss her. He has control. He does.

He does, until she arches up, somehow gaining the height to grasp at his horns and tug at them. Her strength, which had been hinted at before, is now made obvious with the ease she pulls him down to kiss him. Her teeth nip at his lip, drawing blood, and her tongue licks at the inside of his mouth with a dexterousness that should not have surprised him. He has no choice but to respond, nowhere to go but towards her, and his hands wrap around her horns now, tugging at them with just the right pressure to make her gasp a little. He moves his thigh, rubs at her crotch with it, and she moans deep and shuddering into his mouth. 

Oh, he hates her. So much. He hates her, with her strength and her fragility and her hypocrisy and her contradictions. He hates her for her complexity, and how it is so on par with his own. He hates her for how big a difference there is between them, and for how she still fits so perfectly against his body. He hates how she bruises so easily, and how it takes so much effort to make her bleed. He hates, and he hates, and he hates. 

And she hates him too. He knows that now. She hates him, and he knows why, and that’s enough to keep him with her.


	2. AraFef: Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply. Feferi/Aradia, red.

Feferi knows cold like she knows the hidden depths of the ocean, knows how chill can be so deep it makes your bones ache and your head grow foggy. She knows cold like she knows the language of fish, like she knows the currents and the tides. She knows cold, integrally, for she swims in places where no warmth has ever reached.

Aradia asks her to the surface one day, tells her that there is something she has to see. She comes, not out of friendship or love, but out of curiosity. She does not surface often, as she feels so wrong where heat dries her skin and makes her feel heavy in ways she shouldn’t ever feel. But she comes, and she surfaces, and when she does Aradia is waiting for her, wrapped up in furs and heavy cloths. There is a blanket of white spread everywhere she can see, and she wonders at how long it took to make such a thing. When she looks closer she can see the individual flakes, the pieces that make up this heavy white, and she is stunned.

Aradia lifts her out, takes her hive and dresses her in furs not heavy enough to make her claustrophobic, and then they trek out into the snow. Aradia teaches her things she has never learned, land-dweller things she did not think would be important. She learns how laughter carries on air, how your hands shimmer in the moonlight.

She learns how breath mists and mingles in the moment before a kiss.


	3. EriRose: Nerves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of light BDSM. Eridan/Rose, black.

She’d be able to handle him, to understand him, to manipulate him - she’s sure of it - if only she wasn’t caught so off guard by him.

He’s standard fare, easy classification. Genocidal tendencies, rationalisation in order to cope with things outside his understanding - she knows his type, knows how to deal with it.

But her tongue gets tied sometimes. She can’t help it. It was easier, through the screen. She could picture him as a weedy, compensating dweeb and smile to herself, secure in her intelligence. The moment she meets him though - that’s when it changes.

She meets him when she’s fifteen, past puberty and conscious of her sexuality now. She knows her curves, the folds of herself; knows what pleasure is, what attraction is. She knows herself, she thinks, and then she meets him and it changes.

He’s not a dweeb, like she pictured him to be. His arms are muscular - would have to be, to carry his gun, but this is different. This is seeing. His features are fine, angular, shaped to minimize drag while in the water. He looks almost vampiric in his beauty, with his cheekbones sharp enough to cut flesh on.

She shivers when he greets her, his skin soft, his hand in hers - a formal handshake. She struggles with herself, tries to regain her sass, but to no avail. She stammers and stutters and if forced to take her leave, and she feels his eyes on her with every step she takes to the door.

Later that night, she gets upset with herself. No, actually, she gets angry. Who is this troll to unnerve her? Who is he to her, but a plaything? She goes to bed with rage brewing in her mind, and hatred beginning to fester in her heart.

It continues in the same vein for weeks - the moment she’s with him, she can’t speak. She leaves, gets angry, and the hatred grows along with the attraction. She can’t keep her eyes off him, and she hates him for his beauty as much as she is furious with herself for finding him beautiful.

One night, when they are alone, she loses it. Snaps and flings all the insults that had fallen off her tongue unspoken at him, and he stops her with a hand on her wrist and a tongue in her mouth. She rebels, at first - refuses him - but he pulls back and she opens her eyes, and how could she say no to that fucking irritating gorgeous face?

That night, she became Eridan Ampora’s kismesis with all the spirit Lalondes are known for in their romances. And she never lost her words around him again (except for that night they tried a gag).


	4. JohnRose: Colour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply. John/Rose, red.

John doesn’t like to tell anyone, but his favourite colours are purple and orange. He likes purple because it reminds him of the old days, when he first started liking her. He likes orange because it reminds him of the present - like right now, with his arms around her waist and his chin on her shoulder. She got taller, but so did he, and he’s tall enough to press his lips to the top of the ear and not have to bend down.

They’re dancing, right now, and her forehead is resting on his chest. She’s listening to his heartbeat, and he sighs a little as she turns her head to get more comfortable. He doesn’t even know what they’re dancing to, or dancing for.

But he’s happy. Right now, he’s happy. 

Because he’s with her.

And she looks so good in orange.


	5. KurLin: Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of sex, some angst. Kurloz/Meulin, red.

Kurloz can’t kiss her on her lips the way he wants to anymore, but he presses them against her neck and collarbones in the hope that it’s enough. She sighs in the same breathy way she used to, curls herself around him like he’s all she needs to be happy, and she still kisses him on the forehead whenever he even begins to look melancholy. He may be constantly grinning now, but she can always tell when something’s wrong. 

When they pail, now, it’s not as rough as it used to be. She takes her time with him, and he takes her time with her. Foreplay isn't what it used to be, but they get along well enough. She tells him what to do with her voice, and he tells her what to do with his hands and his body, and they manage. He knows every inch of her, knows her inside and out, so this? This is just the next level of trust.


	6. AraVris: Ego

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex and blood warnings. Aradia/Vriska, black.

It’s not Vriska’s fault that Aradia’s horns make perfect handles. Not Vriska’s fault that when she tugs on them hard enough, the rustblood has to come to her - baring her teeth in defiance, her hands on Vriska’s own but without the strength to pry the higherblood’s fingers away. It’s not Vriska’s fault, not at all, that Aradia looks so gorgeous when her head is bowed - her hair all a mess, tangling around her shoulders, hiding her eyes but allowing the glint of teeth to show through.

Similarly, Aradia tells herself that it’s not her fault Vriska has such control over her. That’s it’s not her fault she’s come to love the stain of cerulean blood under her nails, the taint of it on her tongue. She tells herself, when she makes her way back to her hive with scabs on her back and a dull ache in her scalp, that she doesn’t need Vriska’s hate.

There is no deception quite like self-deception.

On the first night, when it all began, they worked themselves into a frenzy so desperate that they were physically unable to leave the hive for a week due their injuries.

Aradia remembers the shudder of Vriska’s skin, the rising of blue bruises, the gasp of pain when her nails dug in deep into the small of her back. She remembers biting Vriska’s shoulder, tasting the blood, licking it away. She remembers wanting to leave no skin unmarked, so that Vriska would remember who did this to her. She remembers little else but pain, and a pleasure so deep it almost felt fatal.

Vriska remembers the fall of Aradia’s hair down her back, wrapping her hands in it to yank the rustblood’s head back and expose her neck. She remembers sucking hickies onto the skin, remembers gripping her horns so that she could guide Aradia’s movements. She remembers seeing the defiance in Aradia’s eyes, feeling the anger in every movement and every clawmark, and she remembers how Aradia cried out into the night with with every movement of Vriska’s fingers in her nook.

The first night is the beginning, but it is not the worst night for injuries.


	7. GamRezi: High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex. Gamzee/Terezi, red.

She whispers worlds to me with her fingertips splayed out on my collarbones, and I taste black holes on her tongue. Her eyes are blind, yet she still seems like she sees all. I can’t let my guard down even with her. Especially when we pail. She’ll touch my face, gentle as a motherfucking pap, nice and smooth. I asked her why, once, and she told me that she likes to see my face. I bit my tongue, didn’t ask what that meant. I understood in a way.

She eases me like sopor used to, gets me high enough on her presence that I don’t feel like painting the wicked pictures with Kanaya’s sweet ass jade blood. I hear the humans have awful nice red in their veins, but as long as she’s around I ain’t gonna get the chance to see it. She does something to me when she’s with me. I don’t know what it is but it’s terrifying.

I think it might be something in the way she leans into my touch instead of flinching away, like she actually wants my spidery hands on her skinny little shoulders. I think it might be the way she stops breathing sometimes when we fuck, like she doesn’t even need to smell me. Like she trusts me, despite her naked body being in my hands, despite her being splayed out before me with all her grey skin up in my vision like canvas.

I think it might be something in the way she pushes me up against the wall, in the dead of morning when everyone’s asleep, and tells me she loves me with all her heart. I think it might be that.

How would I fucking know though? I’m just a clown with no more jokes to tell.


	8. VrisFef: Mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex, blood. Vriska/Feferi, black/red vacillating.

She runs her hands up my abdomen like I’m something precious, but for once I know it’s not because of the hue of my blood. Her face is, as always, intense - she still won’t let me take off those wretched glasses. With her I can let down my guard, be the woman I want to be instead of the girl I am. With her, I can let the glubbing mask I wear fall for a little while.

She brushes her fingers against the ridged scars above my ribs, takes one of my nipples into her mouth. One of her hands reaches up to tangle in my hair and I let my hair fall back. No one’s ever touched me quite like she does. She likes to learn, to watch me. She likes to hear the sounds I make when she does something right, when she hits just the right spot.

She prefers to play with my bulge than to slip her fingers into my nook, prefers me to fuck her with all my strength than to bend me over and take me herself. She likes it when I take her from behind and squeeze her breasts, but she likes it more when she sits astride me and I claw deep scratches into her back. She loves it when I lick the blood away, when she can see the blue stains on my tongue. She loves it when she bites me and draws blood herself, loves to take it and smear it over her skin. She loves to mark and be marked, loves to be defiled and loves to corrupt.

With her I’m the woman I could be instead of the girl I am, and we flip between black and red so fast it makes my head spin.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.


	9. GamSol: Fragile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mental instability. Gamzee/Sollux, red.

Gamzee is a man unhinged, if by unhinged you mean his hinges were never there. He lived once under trappings of sopor, under trappings of himself, under and within himself. He lived like a boy who has not yet realised that he is irrelevant and undeveloped, and like a man who has not yet realised that he is volatile and under pressure. 

Sollux is a man unhinged, if by unhinged you mean his hinges have been torn off. He lived once under trappings of coding, under trappings of himself, under and within himself. He lived like a boy who has not yet realised that he is helpless and underfoot. He lived like a man who has not yet realised that he is desperate and undecided.

Gamzee realised that love would not save his soul when he destroyed three lives; the first being Equius, who only wished to save and serve; the second being Nepeta, who only wished to avenge and avow; the third being Karkat, who only wished to help and have.

Sollux realised that love would not save his soul when he destroyed three lives; the first being Aradia, the girl he lost; the second being Feferi, the girl he loved; the third being himself, the boy he hated.

They share these hurts and little cuts, these little bruises on their minds. They share this hate of self and they take it out on each other, with soft words that neither believe and soft touches neither can trust.

They share because they have always shared, and they are so alone.


	10. EriZee: Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of sex, blood. Eridan/Gamzee, black.

He’s infuriating. How dare he pretend that he knows his purpose? If I, a seadweller of more noble birth than he, don’t know my purpose here than how can he? It’s ridiculous. And his talk of miracles, oh. My vexation knows no bounds. Miracles don’t exist, no matter what the Messiahs may preach.

He notices my irritation. Goads me. Talks to me of how I need to realise that magic happens, that it’s everywhere. That I need to accept my gift. He forces me to hate him, hate his facepaint and his cruel taunting words hidden so cleverly in an ambivalent tone. He makes me loathe him, with all of my being. I had not thought it possible.

I force him up against a wall on a cool evening, as he walks past me to fetch something from a cupboard. He grins at me, lazy and languorous, and I growl at him. He says something then - something about fate - I tune it out. My body is focused on going for his neck, biting at the flesh there and drawing out that sickening indigo blood. How dare he feign knowledge that I have not? How dare he think that he is better than me?

When I awake the next evening covered in scratches and bites, and turn over to see him virtually unmarked, I feel sick in the knowledge that I may have been wrong in my assumptions that I was ever better than anyone.

Least of all him.


	11. GamRezi: Concrete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex. Terezi/Gamzee, black.

She doesn’t like the way his face paint smears on her fingertips. She doesn’t like the way it tastes like concrete and stale dust bunnies. She doesn’t like his half-cocky, half-amused little grin. She doesn’t like the way his insults aren’t even insulting. He could at least make the effort. 

She does like the way his hand fits across her mouth, and the way he sighs when she bites down on his fingers. She does like the way he aggravates her with body language alone, daring her to make a move, to put him in his place. She does like taking him somewhere they might get caught, and trying her best to make him vocal. She does like to watch his face when he cums, and she does like that she’s the only one who’s seen it.

But she doesn’t like him. Oh, no. She hates him.

That’s how it works.


	12. DaveJade: Names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex. Dave/Jade, red.

Her name is Jade and she has a birthmark on her knee in the shape of a butterfly, and he likes to trace it with his fingers when she’s playing videogames just to see her giggle.

His name is Dave and he has freckles on his back and shoulders, and she likes to kiss them when he’s sleeping and watch him wriggle further back into her arms.

Her name is Jade and she has fluffy ears that he scratches when she’s tired, just to see her tail thump against the floor. She hits him when he laughs at it, but she can’t help smiling.

His name is Dave and he’s only five and a half feet of lean blonde teenager, and he still doesn’t take off his shades indoors. She leans over him and kisses his nose to annoy him, and then runs off with his shades. (She likes to put them on top of the fridge so he can’t reach them).

Her name is Jade and she’s beautiful and furious and a crack shot with a rifle, but she’s never as complacent as she is when he’s kissing her, with his hands on the small of her back and his body pressed up against her.

His name is Dave and he’s gorgeous and wrathful and a master with a blade, but he’s never as gentle as he is when he’s pressing inside her, holding her close so she won’t get hurt.

Her name is Jade and she loves him, more than anything, and she’ll never forget the way he looks when he’s breathing hard next to her, his eyes closed and his hair messy.

His name is Dave and he loves her, more than everything, and he’ll never forget the way she sounds when she’s talking to him afterward, her voice deep and laughing and her cheeks bright red.


	13. GamRezi: Sins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex and blood. Gamzee/Terezi, black.

He takes her by the hips and guides her up among the stars, and there are universes in her sightless eyes. His hands feel like bruises on her skin, and his blood tastes like blackcurrants on her tongue. He is the worst, the most chaotic, the most irrational of them all; and his nature defies her in the best of ways. She waxes black for him stronger than she waxes red for Karkat, and that terrifies her in ways she didn’t think possible.

For who is she, this girl born of justice who hates a maniac so deeply, so strongly as to feel it in the depths of her bones and the motions of her day? Who is this girl, with the blind eyes and the keen nose, who swore she would never deign to fill a quadrant with Gamzee Makara?

Her name can’t be Terezi Pyrope. Surely not.

That wouldn’t make sense.

Just like he doesn’t make sense.

Nothing makes sense.


	14. LatuNa: Process

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply. Mituna/Latula, red.

Mituna’s always been special to her.

Before the incident, before everything got just that bit more difficult, they were good friends. They’d spend hours practicing flips and kickups and olleys together. She’d never been happier with someone, than with him. But it wasn’t romantic. Not until the day he almost died saving them.

They did their best, but it wasn’t enough to help him. All they could do was try to talk to him, to understand. Kurloz started spending more time with him, but the others gave up rather quickly.

Expect her.

She was the only one who knew how to calm him down. Who knew what to say, where to touch, when to keep her distance. She could ease him down quicker than even Kurloz could. A few months after it happened she started teaching him to board again. And, little by little, she went red for him. She told him so, one day when they were out. He wasn’t stupid - anyone who thought so she quickly corrected. He just didn’t process things like he used to.

He told her he loved her too, then asked her to show him how to tie his shoes again.

Mituna’s always been special to her. And that’s never going to change.


	15. GamRezi: Six Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply. Gamzee/Terezi, red.

He’s all hands and fingers, and everything about him is lithe and tentative at first. He comes to her in the dead of night, shaken and scared. For the first time, she feels pity. She feels merciful.

She takes him into her bed and lets him wrap around her, a broken troll clinging to her like he’s drowning. She huffs and sighs and shifts around too much for him to be comfortable - he doesn’t complain. She falls asleep with her back up against the wall and his breath on her neck.

She wakes up when he begins to cry.

She doesn’t know how to handle remorse from him, doesn’t know how to comfort him. She’s used to Karkat’s ornery blustering, to Vriska’s subtle hints. She’s never dealt with this rawness, this purity of grief. It’s terrifying, and she is so glad she can not see his face.

That is the first time.

The second is worse, and better in a way. He doesn’t speak, like before. This time she can see the grief straight away though, and that is confronting in ways she doesn’t understand. There is a quiet misery to him, a darkness in his eyes - and even in the dim light she can still smell the smears of his facepaint.

The second night passes much as the first did. 

She is loathe to admit that she may have cried a little herself.

The third is the strangest. She meets him at her door, asks him why he’s here. He doesn’t answer. He looks at her, just looks, and she can’t take the weight of his gaze or the heavy slope of his shoulders. She bursts into tears and this time it is he who gives comfort. He leaves when she’s asleep and covers her with a blanket.

She wakes in the morning feeling drained but renewed. The blanket sends a thrill through her bloodpusher. It shouldn’t. But it does.

On the fourth night he doesn’t cry. He begins to talk, and she listens like the troll she might grow up to be. She listens to his complicated metaphors and his awful phrasing and tastes as his hands shift as he tries to explain how he feels.

She is overcome with the urge to touch his face and feel the scars there.

She does it and he falls silent. Her fingers touch his lips.

She pulls away and he leaves.

The fifth night he asks her to talk and she does. She talks of Vriska and justice, of mercy and pity and Karkat’s advances. She talks of Dave and pale feelings, she talks of death and hate and love. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.

He listens.

He kisses her on the forehead before he leaves.

It’s the sixth night, and she is waiting for Gamzee Makara to come into her bedroom.

This isn’t how she expected love to be.


	16. JohnRose: Pet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sex and light BDSM. Rose/John.

Rose has never had any illusions about her own psyche. Analysis is one of her hobbies, after all, and a poor analyst she would be if she did not know herself. So when she grew older, she handled puberty with all the deftness she demonstrated in her writing. And, unsurprisingly, she handled the attractions of certain sexual practices with ease. She believes it’s because of her exposure to the internet’s more filthy corners at a young age. John thinks it’s just how he is. But then, John tends to see only the surface of things.

John and Rose get together after a drunken night of celebration. It had been Dave’s seventeenth birthday, and they had all consumed a little too much alcohol. Rose’s mother took her and John home, as she was able to drive even while intoxicated whereas John’s father would not be pleased with being woken at three in the morning. So they collapsed together onto Rose’s bed, the door closed firmly and their clothes in disarray, and lay there waiting to sober up a little. By the time the alcohol had started to wear off, they both came to the realisation that it was really very hot and they should take off their clothes shouldn’t they?

One thing led to another, and they became a thing. Not a couple, exactly. Nor was it a friends-with-benefits arrangement. Neither knew quite what to call their relationship for several months, until Rose did a bit of online shopping and began to formulate a proposal.

The proposal involved, quite simply, a set of soft ropes and a blindfold. 

John took the proposal well. He wasn’t naive by this point; far from it. He had delved into porn, from the mundane to the extreme, and he was interested enough in it to consent after a fairly long discussion. They both chose safewords.

Rose chose “Cthulu”, as her pronunciation of the word was well practiced and she highly doubted she’d say it during sex under any circumstance otherwise.

John chose “Ectoplasm”, as his fascination with ghosts had persisted long into his teenage years and remained strong today.

\- two years later - 

 

Rose ensured the ties weren’t cutting off circulation, her small hands quick and skilled on the soft rope. john lay on the bed, naked but for a single piece of blue cloth covering his eyes, and sighed. Rose paused.

"Alright, pet?" she asked, her voice deeper than it had once been but still unquestionably feminine.

john nodded, smiling, “Yes, I’m fine Mistress.” While he was with her, in a session, he would call her Mistress and she would call him pet. It was how they worked. Outside of a session, they were best friends - they weren’t in love, per se. They just needed each other on a level not many could understand. john was devoted to her, and Rose was protective of him, but they would never call each other pet names or get married. They were pet and Mistress, and that was alright by them.

Rose smiled down at him, before getting off the bed and stripping down. This was one of her favourite parts; to touch him, tease him, show him tenderness and pain simultaneously and at the same time not allow him to return the favour. She loved his face when she touched him, the gentle arch of his back, the bite of his teeth on his lip. She liked the high keening noises he made, and the fact that he wouldn’t beg her until she gave him permission to speak. 

She slid her fingers along the inside of his thighs, parting his legs gently. She kissed along the lines her fingers had left, listening to his breath shudder out. She mouthed at his balls, before rolling them with her fingers. Rose licked a line along his shaft, flicking her tongue just so when she reached the head, before kissing his hipbones. She moved up his body, her knees indenting the bed on either side of his hips, her breasts pressing up against him. She kissed him, slow and deep, scratching lines down his torso. 

When she took him into her, he moaned just like the first time.


	17. GamRezi: Curled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dubcon, sex, blood. Gamzee/Terezi, red one-sided, black one-sided.

She would’ve expected a gentle lover. Lucid and lazy, the kind of troll who trails his fingers down your spine and kisses your neck - the kind of troll who tells you sweet nothings and empty compliments while he takes you nice and slow and easy.

He’s not what she expected.

She supposes it is, in part, because of the lack of sopor. His mind is reshaping, reforming and shifting - he’s unstable. She knows this. It didn’t stop her from going flushed for him, and it hasn’t stopped her from going to his bed tonight.

He watches her. She knows he does. She can feel the weight of his gaze on her skin, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. He knows how to move fast - flashstep - catch her off guard. One second she’s standing at the foot of his bed, sniffing at the way he’s sprawled so carelessly there - his shirt ridden up, his abdomen exposed, and he’s scratched a line at his hip that’s bleeding sharp and bright on the edge of her senses - and the next he’s behind her, hands on her waist and tongue sliding slick along her neck.

She inhales - catches a whiff of him, all concrete tasting facepaint and blackberry blood - and then he turns her, claims her mouth with all the force that she should’ve expected from a Bard of Rage.

His teeth nip at her lips and she is caught with a rush of defiance.

She responds, growls at him as deep as she can and kisses him back fiercely. Her hands rake down his back almost absentmindedly, curling into claws and she can taste the tang of blood at the back of her throat but she’s not sure if it’s from his lips or the purple undoubtedly coating her hands.

He pulls away from her and she’s left biting at the air for a brief second. He laughs. Laughs like a loon, like a maniac. She’s comforted by that. She knows crazy. Knows it oh so well.

So she goads him, licks at his lips and smears his paint. Calls him a fool and a murderer, and that gets him laughing more. He pushes her back onto the bed, sends her onto her back with a hand to her chest - she lets him. He’s not fighting her now, not looking for a battle. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what quadrant they’re in when they start this game, but it’s always easy for her to take control - make him ease back into safe territory. He won’t hurt her too bad like this and she will hurt him just bad enough.

When he takes her this time it’s better. Easier. The press of his hand on her lower back is a comfort to her, and when she cards her hands through his hair he moans sweet and low. He tells her he loves her. She doesn’t say it back, but she rolls her hips and kisses him and she hopes that’s enough.


	18. VrisFef: Appearances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply. Vriska/Feferi, red.

Vriska likes to think that she’s cool.

The kind of girl who never backs down from a fight.

The kind of girl everyone’s scared of.

The kind of girl who wears black leather and has a matesprit higher than her on the hemospectrum, who does everything she says. That’s what she likes to think. 

Feferi knows different.

Feferi knows that Vriska is pretty lame.

She won’t back down from a troll, sure. But Vriska turns into mush if she so much as sees a hopbeast.

She may have a few trolls scared of her, yes. But Feferi has seen her asleep, with a gentle smile on her face, all snuggled up to Fef’s own stomach.

Vriska might want a boyfriend higher than her who listens to her, and she might want to wear black leather. But Feferi knows that Vriska likes to wear white dresses and seashells when no one’s around, and her matesprit? Well, her matesprit may be higher than her on the hemospectrum.

But no one tells Feferi Peixes what to do.

Especially not Vriska Serket.


	19. GamRezi: Noose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consensual asphyxiation and hanging, sex. Terezi/Gamzee, black.

Terezi likes to hang things. She likes the way the rope snaps tight, likes the constriction of the throat column. She likes the way the noose has to be perfectly tied, perfectly fitted. She likes to hang things, yes, but while they were FLARPing Vriska never let her hang a troll. Terezi has always regretted not standing up to the blue-blood about that; instead she hang scalemates, hundreds of them, a tribute to each troll she and Vriska killed while FLARPing, a memento of her destructive tendencies.

She and Gamzee have been black for a while, blacker than she ever thought she could be. She’d been a little black for Vriska at one point, even a little black for Aradia once, but never this deep. He embodies chaos and psychosis, is a physical manifestation of disorder and felonious intent.

When he comes hive one night, full of holes and bleeding but still plainly alive, she has a thought. Gamzee is invulnerable; something she had guessed at previous nights but never seen such blatant proof of before. He is, for all intents and purposes, unkillable. 

Terezi ponders. It’s bad form to kill your kismesis, bad form to harm them or maim them too much. But if they physically cannot die…well, that changes thing.

She broaches the subject the next day over duskmeal and he readily agrees. He’s always been the more deviant of the two of them when it comes to pailing - it was he who suggested the knives last time, after all.

She takes a few days to prepare, to properly tie the noose and set it up in a reasonable place. She explains to him that due to their height differences she would have to climb up his body and hang on to him - he says he doesn’t mind and honks at her. She pokes her finger into his still healing bullet hole in retaliation.

The last thing to prepare is to place a sizeable bucket below the noose, the night of.

He steps up on a chair and places it around his neck, as gentle as a baabeast. She steps around and pulls it from underneath him, and his face begins to purple almost immediately. She watches for a few minutes, this naked troll choking by her hand, and then she clambers up his spindly body and clings to his shoulders, wrapping her long legs around his waist and rubbing her bulge up against his. 

He makes a sound in his throat and she slips her bulge into his nook as he slips his into hers, shuddering violently, and she kisses him. He reaches a hand up to tug at her hair and she bites at his lip, all the while moving against him, controlling everything, controlling him.

He doesn’t last long and neither does she, and she bites the rope to get them down.

They clean up and go to coon, and the next day they talk about doing it again next week maybe.


	20. AraVris: Standing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood, sex. Vriska/Aradia, black.

I hate her. I hate her for her arrogance, I hate her for her beauty, I hate her for the way she places herself above and the way that society says that it’s right. I hate her for the way she manipulates Tavros and Terezi. I hate her for both her cowardice and for her bravery. I hate what she’s done to me and I hate that I can’t blame her for it.

I hate the way she refuses to give in when I touch her the first time. I hate that she always fights back when we kiss. I hate that no matter how gentle I try to be we always end up fucking like animals. I hate that we can’t go one day without drawing blood on each other.

I love the way she arches when I pull her hair just shy of ripping it out. I love the way she shies away when I tear off her glasses and expose her scars. I love the way she can pin me up against a wall with that stupid robotic arm of hers. I love how sensitive the scar tissue is where it connects with her torso.

I love the way she always comes to me first. I love the way she screams my name like a benediction, like a prayer. I love the way she tugs me closer by the horns. I love that she always wants more from me.

I hate that she leaves me craving her. I hate that my feelings have never been flushed. I hate that she’s affected so many aspects of my life.

I don’t mind hating her as long as I get to touch.


	21. GamRezi: Rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood. Gamzee/Terezi, black.

It begins with blood. Yours, not his. He watches as you clean it from your face, dripping teal after an unsuccesful strife against Dave. You feel the weight of his eyes on the back of your neck, smell him move up close behind you. He pauses; inhales. You hear him, feel him, breathe in your scent deep. His tongue meets with your neck and slicks a path up to your earlobe. His hands come up to your chin. He turns your face. He licks your wounds.

You are all a quiver with burning rage. He leaves you trembling against the injustice.

It becomes something over the next weeks. Something rotten and vile. You hate him. He is an incomprehensible, evil, disgusting piece of trash. And he smells oh so delectable with those scars across his face. 

Black. This is what you wax for him. You take all your past pity for him, your sweet indulgence of his mindlessness, and with his soberself now apparent you paint it all black. 

He tastes like sin and hate and justice when you lick the lines of his mouth.


	22. GamRezi: Voyeur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Masturbation, voyeurism. Gamzee/Terezi, black.

The vents are cool, comfortable, and he’s lean enough that he can wriggle around like a grub. They’ve become a refuge for him these days, away from all the loud noises and loud people on the meteor. He likes to watch sometimes though. Karkat’s little angry tantrums, Dave when he’s quiet and rapping and vulnerable. Kanaya when she’s with Rose, all blushing and sweet with all that blood so close to the surface.

Yes, he likes to watch. But none so much as her.

The first time he saw her unclothed was during his little…fit. When she changed into her uniform in front of him, not knowing he was there. Watching her. Seeing the flex of her hands, the shift of her tiny little bones under her skin. It aroused him. And he knew this could not, would not, be a one time thing.

He’s fairly sure it’s one of the reasons he didn’t kill her.  
So now, in the vent above her respiteblock, he watches.

She walks in, a little sashay to her hips that wasn’t there a year ago. There’s a calmness to her now, a stillness. He doesn’t know if her likes it or not. He does like the curves that are starting to show through her clothes though; the swell of her breasts, the soft curve of her hips. She’s taller than she was too, though still much shorter than him.  
She lets her hands fall to the hem of her shirt, lifts it a little. His breath hitches at the glimpse of her skin, her bony hips, her navel. She pulls the shirt over her head in one smooth motion, her shoulderblades moving sinuously. He watches her spine move under her skin. She doesn’t wear a bra, they’re not a thing in Alternian culture. She is exposed and small and fragile, and her nipples are a deep teal. His hand drops to his bulge, and he cups himself through the fabric of his pants. He hisses, and she half turns towards the vent. Then she shakes her head, and turns back.

She takes off pants next, unbuttoning them and tugging them down with little grace. She kicks them off, not caring where they go. Her underwear is red, her favourite colour, the one she most likes to lick. He thinks for a moment - is she that flexible? - then shakes his head, reaching inside his pants. He slides a thumb down the length of his bulge, feels it wrap around his hand. He trembles, minutely, because he’s so damn sensitive. And it’s all her fault.  
Her legs are longer than he expected, and she takes her time shimmying out of her underwear. He can’t really take the slowness of it, the swing of her hips and the tantalising sheen of sweat at the small of her back. She shivers with the coolness of her room once they’re off, a full body shudder that causes him to react in the same way. He is close now, unbearably so. His bulge feels so damn good in his hands, reacting to the way he’s moving, reacting to the way she’s moving. He closes his eyes involuntarily, doesn’t hear her walk over.

She pulls out of the vent and grins down at him, maniacal as ever.  
"Can I help you with something, you disgusting creature?" she spits, and oh he has never hated quite like this before.


	23. GamRezi: Doomed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doomed session, sex. Sadstuck. Terezi/Gamzee, red.

She did her best to please him.

Drank the Faygo, painted her face, blurred her Seeing Eyes. When she cried for everyone they’d lost she went to him, and he kissed her hard enough to bruise. He told her that it wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t. He told her that it was his fault, but it wasn’t. Karkat had made mistakes and so had Vriska and they had died in a mess of viscera and rainbow blood spatters. They had all died, except for the two of them.

He told her that she didn’t have to be strong anymore, that he would keep her safe. That she was the only thing he had and thus the most important thing to him. That he didn’t mind if she was sad. And she was selfish, and she let him do it. She let him be strong, and allowed herself to be weak. And every day she hated herself for not being able to comfort him like he was comforting her. And she hated him for not seeing what he was doing to himself, but everytime she tried to say something he’d hush her and take her into his arms and dance with her under the trees of her hive.

They slept in her recuperacoon, which was not really big enough for the two of them but she didn’t want to sleep alone and she didn’t think he did either. Sometimes he would cry when they went to coon, and she would pretend that she couldn’t hear the sobs in her ear. They would get high off sopor slime sometimes, even though she hated the taste, and sometimes the world would seem okay for a little while. They would stare up at the sky and she would reach out to touch the stars and sometimes - sometimes - she thought she could touch them. And sometimes she saw shapes up there and she named them Cancer, Virgo, Aquarius, Leo. She named them and she would cry not out of grief but out of sheer, immense loneliness. And then Gamzee would turn to her and touch her shoulder and pull her close and kiss her, kiss her tears away and taste them.

He would ease her back and take her under the stars where she thought she could see their dead friends and she would dig her fingers into his back and sigh into his mouth and think of a time when they could have done this, felt this, and not been so alone.


End file.
